Reserve Training chapter 2
I forgot the summary yesterday. Duh. Tony and Remy get called to Great Lakes Naval Station to fill in for Training Officers who were injured.
Chapter 2
Ron Sacks was not a happy FBI agent; he’d arrived at the departure station to find that they were not going by plane, as planned, but by bus. And it was a school-type bus rather than a tour bus. This was not going to be fun.
He carried his duffel onboard and settled into a seat. His plan had been to sleep as much as he could on the trip to Great Lakes, but that was blown out of the water. There was no way he was going to get any sleep on this trip. He checked his tablet and realized that the trip was going to take upwards of twenty hours, depending on route and traffic. He rubbed his face and sighed. “Fuck.”
His seat mate introduced himself as CPO Ramses Great. “Yeah, my Momma hated me. So ... how long is this nightmare going to last?”
“Twenty hours plus. And you will not sleep on me.”
“Okay, man, don’t get your shorts in a bunch. I’m not that happy about this shit either. Got things to do and places to be that aren’t this.” And with that, Ramses put his feet in the aisle and went to sleep.
Sacks managed to wedge himself into the angle between the seat and window with one foot braced on the leg of the bench seat in front of him and doze off. When the bus started out twenty minutes later they were all awakened by a MCPO shouting at them to answer roll.
Sacks just yelled, “Yo!” when his name was called and went back to sleep.
Five hours later he pushed Ramses off his shoulder. “Off, man, I am not a bed.”
“Sorry. Had a last shift before I had to report. I’m beat.” Ramses rubbed his face.
“What do you do?” Sacks decided that they’d better stay awake for a bit.
“Bouncer, bodyguard, chauffeur. Anything that requires big, dumb, and strong.” He shrugged. “Good money, and I’m savin’ up to set up my own limo service.”
Sacks nodded. “So ... reserves?”
“Enlisted to get away from my family. The whole bunch of ‘em aren’t worth spit.” Ramses settled back for a chat. “What do you do?”
“FBI. I figured that being in Reserves would impress my superiors there. Not so much.”
They spent the next couple of hours bitching and moaning about having to interrupt their lives to report and gassing over their fellow workers and bosses. Finally, someone told them to shut up or get smacked around. The ranking officer onboard told them all to shut up.
Sacks subsided but Ramses grumbled, “I could’a been at a swanky beach place with a fruity drink and a hot woman; instead I’m here without a drink or a woman. As to hot, you’re all sweaty, but that don’t count.”
Sacks idly wondered why they always arrived at dusk but fell asleep before he could figure it out.
.
Tony and Remy made sure that all the new issue was organized and ready. They were also authorizing haircuts for every single man. Remy mumbled, “If the TO ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
Tony smirked at him and said, “Thus saith Abby.”
Remy shuddered dramatically. “Remind me never to truly piss that woman off. She’s evil.” He checked one last line on his clipboard. “Ok; towels, wash cloths, sheets, blanket, pillow, pillow case, one new issue NWU, socks, underwear, t-shirts, boots. They’re all gonna whine like kicked bitches when they find out they have to leave everything but their hygiene products behind.”
Tony nodded. “And we’re gonna go through that, and all they get to keep is soap or body wash, shampoo, toothbrush and paste, shaving gear, and medical necessities.”
Remy nodded. “They’re not gonna have time to mess with conditioner, gel, an’ all that.”
One final check of everything led to Tony remarking, “Hope they like having everything a size too large. I double checked their sizes against their records. If they didn’t keep them updated ... tough.”
Remy shrugged. “Just hope they didn’t put on too much weight.” He thought for a moment. “If they did, they’ll just have to put in a requisition for the proper size.”
“Might make them all get remeasured when they get their haircut.”
Remy snickered, “Man, you just as evil as Abby.”
“Well, you knew that all along. Jerk.” Tony poked Remy in the ribs, making him laugh and shoulder him.
“Bitch.”
“You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m pretty.”
They laughed together then headed out to make sure that their room suited; their quick check hadn’t done more than make sure that they had the proper uniform.
.
Some TO’s lived in the same barracks as their men, others did not. Tony and Remy did not.
The feeling, in this case, was that their much higher rank might cause the men to be unable to relax when their ‘day’ was done. But the highest rank in the troupe was Petty Officer First Class, so it was a good thing that Remy was a Master Chief Petty Officer.
They made up their beds themselves; it wouldn’t do to have someone else do it then insist that their men make theirs themselves. They also cleaned the room. They had a small sitting area, so they settled down to just exist for a bit before they went out to greet their group.
They just relaxed until Tony glanced at his watch and said, “Twenty. We better go.” So they headed out at a fast trot.
.
Ron Sacks was half asleep when Ramses poked him. “Nearly there. Better wake up.”
Ron grumbled a bit then said, “Tired. I’ll wake up when it’s time.”
Ramses shrugged. “Your ass. I’m up, got my duffel where I can get to it. You’d be better off to do the same. They’re gonna come out guns blazin’, or I miss my guess.”
“So? What can they actually do?” Sacks wasn’t going to do any more than he had to do. It was up to the TO’s to get him in shape; it wasn’t his job to do more than the minimum.
Ramses just shook his head. He wasn’t happy about being here but he was going to make the best of a bad deal and work with what he had; bucking the system didn’t seem a good way to deal.
.
The bus emptied out to yelling TO’s and the snarling of the bus driver who wanted them off ... now, and he didn’t care if you were trying to wake up or what. “Off! Off! Grab your shit and get!”
Tony bellowed, “Oh! My! God! How the hell did I wind up with such a bunch of girls?” He grimaced as several of the men actually fell down the stairs. “Well, don’t just fuckin’ mill around like cattle ... line the fuck up!” He watched as most of the men managed to get their duffels and line up. The rest didn’t seem to have a clue.
Tony rubbed his face then yelled, “Will you lugnuts get it together? Sometime this century would be nice!” He zeroed in on one man, “Sacks! Damn it, how the hell can you be such a fuck-up? Where’s your duffel?”
Sacks blinked, groaned, and smarted off, “If you want it so bad, you find it.”
Tony snarled back, “You want to start out with attitude? Fine. I’ll adjust it for you. Find your fuckin’ duffel and get in line.”
Sacks started to say something else, but Ramses threw his duffel at his head, yelled, “Here! Dumbass. Shut the fuck up before we all wind up doing push-ups first thing. FBI my ass; Fools, Bitches, an’ Idiots is more like it.” He dropped his own duffel at his feet and managed a creditable At Ease stance.
Ron kicked his duffel next to Ramses’ and joined him in line.
Tony eyed them both, nodded to Ramses and said, “PO Great,” then went back to yelling at individual idiots.
Remy worked up and down the line, yelling the milling mass into something resembling order.
Tony eyed the mess and growled. He introduced himself. “My name is LtCmdr Anthony Jethro DiNozzo. You will call me LtCmdr, Sir, or some combination of that accompanied by my Patronymic. You will not call me Tony, or DiNozzo. Are we clear?”
A rather ragged, ‘Yes, sir.’ greeted this. He took exception to that at the top of his lungs. “I cannot hear you! If you’re that short of breath, we’ll work on it. Try again!”
This time everyone managed to yell, “Sir! Yes, Sir!”
Tony went on to introduce his partner. “This is Master Chief Petty Officer Remiel Andre Devereaux. You will address him as Master Chief, Master Chief Petty Officer, Sir, or some combination of the aforesaid along with his Patronymic of Devereaux. Are we clear?”
“Sir! Yes, Sir!” Everyone braced for more yelling.
“All right! You are now my command, God help me, for the next two weeks. First off, all duffels will be inspected, and you will keep personal hygiene products only. While that is being done, you’ll get a haircut. So, move out! Now!” The men started to walk off, moaning and bitching on the way. This got them another earful. “Christ on a damn cracker! You people think someone else is gonna hump your shit? Pick up your damn duffel and run, you useless bunch of jackwads! You are wasting my time! Go!” He watched as the group scurried past him.
Remy offered as he ran by, “Not that bad. Could be worse ... maybe?”
Tony snarled. “Slacks. I got fuckin’ Slacks. I hate that jerk.”
“Slacks? No Slacks. Got a Sacks, R.” Remy was confused.
“I’ve called the jerk Slacks for years. Sacks, R.” Tony eyed the running group. “You! German! Move it!” He caught up with the group, cursing himself for his inattention. “If I see more than two feet between one man and the next one ... You’re gonna regret it. Bunch up!”
The men managed to space themselves out properly and arrived at the barber in decent time. They were told to drop all their duffels on a row of tables near the door and line up. There was a lot of bitching and complaining, most of it mumbled, but no one paid any attention.
Tony got the men lined up and started to go check duffels, until he saw a man leaning on the wall. “Oh! My! God! You are not leaning on my wall! I know you aren’t! Stand up! That’s my wall and no one leans on it. No one! You got me? Stand the fuck up straight!” The leaning Petty Officer, who should have known better, jerked himself upright. “Attention! And you will stand there until told otherwise! Am I clear?” Since the PO was at attention, Tony didn’t actually expect him to reply. However, he was now going to be standing at attention until the next to last man got his haircut.
Tony noted, and pointed out to Remy, that several of the men had taken the offensive and gotten a Boot Buzz; they got another haircut anyway, but Tony and Remy marked them for a look-see.
Ramses wasn’t that happy about his new ‘do; he’d been growing dreads for a year and wasn’t that happy to have to start again. But, he knew he’d messed up by not reporting, so he kept his mouth shut. Sacks, on the other hand, put everyone’s backs up by announcing, “I’m a Senior Agent in the FBI and I don’t have to get a buzz cut.”
He started to leave but he was blocked by Tony, Remy, and one of the barbers.
Tony eyed him for a moment then snarled, “You will get in one of those chairs and get a haircut or I’ll put you on report for insubordination. What’ll it be?”
Ron Sacks wasn’t stupid, just stubborn and wrong-headed. “You’re just doing this because you’re pissed I put you up on murder charges.”
Tony shook his head. “Sacks, I don’t give a flying fuck about that. Gibbs proved you wrong, charges dismissed, not even a smudge on my record, either NCIS or SEAL. You’re just pissed because you were proven wrong. Now ... look at my shoulders ...”
Sacks actually looked.
“What do you see?”
Sacks grumbled, “A LtCmdr’s bars and star.”
Tony barked, “I didn’t hear that.”
“A LtCmdr’s bars and star, Sir!” Sacks managed to get it out loud and clear.
“And don’t you fuckin’ forget it. And you’re a damn slacker. Get in a damn chair.” Tony pointed, Sacks jumped to obey, grimacing when he realized that he had flinched when Tony got in his face.
As they returned to the table to finish the rummage through all the duffels, Tony took mercy on the leaner and yelled at him to ‘Hit a chair, now!’ No one complained about allowing him to jump the line.
Remy was going through a duffel, grumbling.
“What’s got your shorts in a knot?” Tony started on the nearest duffel.
Remy pulled out a massive dopp kit and dumped it. “This. Shampoo, okay. Conditioner, no. Razor, okay. Shaving gel, okay. Stinkin’ Axe shit ... yuck. Hair gel, hair spray, mousse, and wax. Can I just say ... what the everlovin’ fuck? And no deodorant anywhere.” He removed the offending items and dropped them into the trash. “And year after year we tell ‘em not to bring this shit and year after year they do. He also doesn’t have a toothbrush, paste, or mouthwash. What a pig.” He held up a wild Hawaiian shirt. “And this shit. Seriously?” He got a cardboard box, wrote the name on it, and dumped all the clothing that wasn’t GI reg into it. It joined a pile of similar boxes against the wall.
It took them nearly as long to get through the duffels as it did to get the haircuts done.
When everyone was lined up to collect their duffels Tony addressed the group. “Okay, you’ll notice that your shit has been sorted. You do not have time for gel, mousse, or any of that shit. It’s in the trash. You were told not to bring it. You have been issued GI; use it. Your other clothing, except for what is reg, is in a box. You’ll get it back when you leave. Your issue is in front of your duffel ... grab it and head out.” He watched as everyone scurried forward to grab their gear and run for the barracks. He shook his head. “If you snicker, I swear I’ll swat you.”
Remy managed to keep a straight face. “Yeah, we better follow that bunch a’ idjets before they get lost and hurt themselves.”
It took another hour to get the reservists bedded down as Tony insisted that all beds be properly made before anyone got to sleep. This meant that, when your bed was properly made, you stood At Ease until all beds were “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” Needless to say, making your crew mates stand around while you fucked up making a bed didn’t earn you any friendship points.
Sacks made his bed, then stood at the foot. MCPO Devereaux came around, took one look, and yelled, “Christ on a crutch! What the hell is that? You do not just twist the corners into a knot and stuff it under the mattress.” He ripped the covers off and ordered, “Miter the damn corners. And I will bounce a quarter off that bed, or you’ll do it again.”
Sacks eyed him, then mouthed off, “Well, it was good enough for my Momma.”
“I am not, thank God, your Momma. And you will make the bed Navy-approved ... after giving me ten sit-ups and ten push-ups. And watch your damn mouth. I’m not your friend, and I’m not putting up with that shit,” he glared around, “from anyone. Get to it.”
It was near midnight before they got to bed.
.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not a happy man. He hated leaving Tim alone to deal with three new people. Dean and Cosmo were new to the team, and Dorneget was nearly a complete unknown. He knew that Leon was keeping an eye on them, but he was still nervous. He also knew that it was past time for Tim to be given more responsibilities. He knew; he just didn’t like it. But he had to report on Monday, so he sucked it up and dealt.
He didn’t bother to have a talk with either Dean or Cosmo, as they had all talked all this stuff over in the past. Instead he did laundry and cleaned guns. Dean and Cosmo read case files and put up with his snapping and snarling. Neither one of them blamed him a bit; no one wanted to put up with a bunch of new recruits or retreads.
He finally packed his duffel, got in his car, and drove to Quantico. He was displeased in the extreme to find out that he’d been loaned to the Navy and was going to Great Lakes to teach sharpshooting to a bunch of reservists. He snarled sourly, ordered some poor derp to take his car back to his house, and stomped off to the air strip.
He approached the Loadmaster to tell him that he was carrying “private arms.” The Petty Officer turned out to be a rather sour-faced woman by the name of Randy. She gave him a side-oogle, then said, “Keep it close, Master Gunny,” then returned to her clipboard and earpiece. Gibbs just boarded, found a space, and settled in.
Takeoff was no problem, but the screaming, crying kids and harassed-looking women who’d crowded around him were. The layover somewhere or other to pick up he didn’t care what didn’t help. He was working on a headache until he was called by name. “Gibbs ... Master Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs?”
“Yo!” Gibbs stood and gathered his gear; he was not about to leave anything to the busy fingers of a bunch of bored kids. “What’s up?”
The airman grinned. “Figured you needed rescue. This way.” He led the way behind a pallet of boxes. “Sit.”
Gibbs settled in the hollow created by several piles of pallets. “Nice. Thanks.”
The airman nodded. “Coffee? Thermos, but I got it at Starbucks before we took off.”
Gibbs produced his own thermos from his duffel. “No, but thanks for the thought.” They settled in companionable semi-silence; most of the noise was blocked by the pallets, the rest was muted by the sound of the engines.
It wasn’t long before they were joined by a couple more airmen with their own coffee. “So. Who knows a good one?”
Gibbs settled back to indulge in the old military pastime of Toppers. “Okay. Who’s going to start?” They all looked at each other, reluctant to start but wanting to get on with things. Finally one of the men produced a pack of greasy cards and they cut for starter.
The airman that won started out, “No shit, man. There we were ...” They spent the next two hours swapping stories.
Gibbs looked at his watch then asked, “How long is this flight actually going to take?”
The Master Sergeant shrugged. “You know how it goes, should take about three ... four hours. We get diverted again? Who the fuck knows.”
The navigator dropped by just then to tell them, “We’ve been diverted to Columbus, Ohio, with a layover of an hour.”
Gibbs sighed; there went his hopes of getting in in any kind of daylight. “Well, fuck.”
The layover took exactly an hour, which put them two hours behind time. Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest and propped himself up by bracing his feet against the pallet opposite him and went to sleep.
He woke up when someone nudged his feet and said, “Master Guns, we’re readying for landing. Brace yourself.”
He grunted and resettled in a more upright position and prepared for landing. The landing wasn’t rougher than normal, but several women screamed and most of the younger kids started crying, again. Gibbs picked up his rifle case and duffel and wedged himself into an odd corner. He intended to stay there until most of the dependent passengers were offloaded. He was not about to get stuck trying to make his way through a milling throng of confused adults and screaming, crying kids.
He succeeded and finally deplaned along with the crew. He glanced around, hoping for a ride, and saw a sailor standing by a jeep. “You lookin’ for me?”
“Gibbs?”
Gibbs nodded, “That’s me.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The man looked half scared, half excited.
“I got a bivvy? Or do I get some squat?” He was not looking forward to winding up in some shack that Housing considered “acceptable quarters.” The last time, he’d wound up in a converted workshop that had no hot water and was nearly a mile from anything.
“We managed a good spot for you. Here’s your orders ... and I’m to see you to your quarters, sir.” The sailor climbed into the driver’s seat, and Gibbs put his luggage behind the back seat, then took the passenger side; he wasn’t about to sit in back like some CO. “Well, we’re off.”
Gibbs ignored the boy’s driving with aplomb; he was used to Ziva’s driving, this was little-old-lady-driving-to-church stuff in comparison. He opened the file and read. It didn’t take him long to groan, “Shit! I get to nurse-maid a bunch of slackers? Great.” The driver made a sympathetic noise. When Gibbs got to who he was going to partner with, he smiled; the list of fellow Training Officers was familiar.
The driver offered, “I heard you have to work with some Squid. Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ll be running the firing range for a couple of SEALs who’ve got to have pissed off someone high up or something, ‘cause they’ve got a bunch of Reservists that slacked off at least two years. And a couple of groups of up-and-comers that need to qualify for Spec. Ops. and shit.”
Gibbs blinked for a moment, clicked that the man was Navy, not Air Force, then asked, “And you know this ... how?”
The man cheerfully replied, “Scuttlebutt’s a bitch, ain’t it? You know how it goes.”
Gibbs snorted and agreed, “I do.”
He was pleasantly surprised when they pulled up in front of a small Quonset hut. Since he was only going to be here for two weeks, he wasn’t about to rent anything so he had to settle for WWII vintage temporary housing. It wasn’t as bad as some places he’d stayed and it was close to the firing range, not that that bothered him that much. He just wasn’t that fond of humping a rifle and a case of ammo across the base.
He got out of the jeep, thanked the driver, returned his salute then got his things and went inside. He was happy to see that the place was clean and in good order; it was also one bedroom, which meant he was a singleton. The kitchen was 1950’s military, but functional and well stocked with food. Gibbs was going to eat most of his meals in the galley, but he was glad to see enough of this and that that he could scramble up a quick meal if he needed to. And he’d brought his own grind, of course, so coffee wasn’t going to be a problem. The only problem was the almost total lack of dishes and flatware.
After checking the bedroom to make sure the bed was made, Gibbs wandered back into the kitchen to make coffee. As he waited for it to brew he unpacked his duffel and put his things away. It was late evening, but he knew he had to be up early to go over lesson plans with the other trainers and staff. He grumbled softly, turned on the TV, and sat on the couch, drinking coffee and watching the news and weather, casually flipping through his orders as he did so. He was relieved to find that he only had two four hour classes a day; one started at the unbelievable hour of 0800, the other started at 1400. He grumbled a bit but resolved to run the grinder in the morning, eat good meals, and spend the evening cleaning and repairing small arms.
.
Tony woke at 0430 on the dot, ten seconds before Remy did. He threw his covers back, got dressed, then made the bed. He joined Remy in the kitchenette for coffee, then they headed out to wake their group. They did this by banging the door to the barracks open and yelling, “Good morning, ladies! Up! Up! Rise and shine! If you can’t shine, get the fuck up anyway!”
The moaning and bitching didn’t deter them at all. Remy continued to yell while Tony gave the sleepyheads his personal attention. This included screaming as near their ears as he felt safe and, if all else failed, tipping their racks over with them still in them. He did this to two men: Sacks and some red-headed guy who rejoiced in the name of Randy Red.
“You have won the Clean Barracks Award. While we all go eat, you’ll police the barracks before you do the same. Get busy!” Remy eyed the newly made bunks, yanked the covers off three, and announced, “You three join the two sleeping beauties. The rest of us are leaving.”
And with that the whole group, minus the five who were already in hot water, left for breakfast. This was the last morning they’d eat before PT. Not that they got to take it easy this morning. Tony and Remy moved up and down the line barking and snarling.
They lined up, got their food, and sat down where Remy pointed. This was interesting to most of the men, as Remy informed them, “Fine. Look to the left of you.” He waited a moment, then yelled, “Oh! My! God! Are all of you slow? Look! Left!” Everyone looked. “Now look right.” They obeyed. “Remember who is on your left and right as they are members of your squad. Everyone on your side of the table is a member of your squad. You will sleep with them, eat with them, sweat with them, run with them. And they will do the same with you. You’ll either elevate each other to the heights, or drag each other to the depths. Now eat!”
So they all ate. Remy and Tony wolfed down their food, sitting at the head and foot of the table, the last time they would sit with the men. They were joined by Sacks and his companions just in time for them to sit where they were told and wolf down cream of wheat and toast, the only things left.
Sacks kept his mouth shut, as he was hungry and knew that, if he mouthed off, he’d be doing PT instead of eating. He also knew that no one could actually force him to do anything; but refusal could lead to a court martial, and he didn’t want any part of that particular exercise.
When Tony was done, he stood up and started yelling again. “I swear ... I’ve never seen such a bunch of slow-ass motherfuckers in my life. If you’re not done in ten seconds ... you’ll be on report. Move it! Move it! Move it!” Remy took one side of the table and Tony the other and they ‘motivated’ their men to eat faster and get going.
As they scurried out the door, Tony whispered to Remy, “What do you wanna bet that at least half of ‘em puke?”
“No bet. I intend that my whole squad re-learns the concept of PT, then eat.” Remy gave Tony an evil grin.
Tony returned it, muttering, “Bet all mine puke.”
They chivvied the whole platoon to the Great Lakes version of the Grinder, yelling at most of them at one time or the other to pick up the pace. Tony told two of them, “If you don’t keep up, you’re out. If you’re out, that means out of the Reserves. You’re a Bug Company reject.”
He overheard someone mutter, “Man, that DiNozzo is really a belt-fed son-of-a-bitch.”
He walked up behind him and yelled, “I am, and don’t you forget it! Now run!”
They ran, and ran, and ran. Several of Remy’s men dropped out, panting too hard to continue. Remy rounded on them, yelled, “Hydrate! Then get up and run!” He waited until they had gotten a drink, had a medic go over them, then turned into a screaming fiend, barking at their heels until they caught up with the group.
Ron Sacks noticed that both Remy and Tony weren’t sweating, despite the fact that they’d run twice as far as the platoon, screaming all the while. He was disgusted; in general and in particular. In general, he’d thought he was in good shape, he wasn’t; he’d thought he was prepared for this, he wasn’t. In particular, he realized that he was at the mercy of a man he’d put up for murder. He sighed; now all he had to do was get over things, man up and deal. He panted his way through another fifty yards before he had to drop out and puke. Twice.
Tony jumped on that. “What the hell, Sacks? You’re FB fuckin’ I. You’re supposed to be in shape. Jimmy’s in better shape than that and he’s an ME.” He got right in Sacks’ face. “I’m gonna make fuckin’ sure that you’re in shape. The kind a’ shape you’re supposed to be in. And when’s the last fuckin’ time you qualified with your damn sidearm?”
Sacks winced. He’d also managed to skip qualifying for six months over his due date. “I’m qualified.”
“Bet.” Tony’s tone of voice was doubtful; his expression said he didn’t believe Sacks for a second.
Sacks turned sullen, “Well, I am.”
Remy, who’d been keeping the non-puking members going, trotted back. “Problem?”
“PO Sacks claims to have qualified on schedule. We’ll be checking that out.” Tony jerked his head at Sacks. “Move out.”
Sacks hurried to rejoin the platoon. He knew he was busted, but hoped to bluff it out.
By halfway through the grinder, every single man in the platoon had dropped out to puke. Remy and Tony made sure that they stayed hydrated, yelling at them to drink at regular intervals and making sure that they did exactly that. It helped that there were barrels with bottles of water and sports drink sprinkled all over the place. Medics were also placed at strategic points along the way.
By the time they reached the end of the Grinder and the team obstacles, the group was about done. They’d make it through the last parts if they cooperated; if they didn’t, it was a fail and they’d be back after an hour’s rest to try the whole thing over.
Remy shook his head sadly; their two groups were already at each other’s throats, each group trying to get a leg over the other. One-upsmanship at its worse. Tony waded in to pull Ramses out of the muck with one hand, while he used the other to push Randy off his back. “Damn it! Great is not a stepstool. You could have drowned him. I’m gonna adjust your attitude. Gimme twenty push-ups and twenty sit-ups. Get going. And I better hear you count every one.”
He set Ramses to watch Red, telling him, “Since you’re the one he decided made a good stool, you can make sure he counts. Then catch up.”
Ramses just nodded, crossed his muddy arms over his wet chest and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” His expression let Tony know that he had his doubts about that.
“If that jackwad won’t cooperate on the team obstacles, go around ‘em.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Tony headed off to rescue another couple who’d gotten themselves into grief on a rope climb.
This time he had to climb to the top, pull the man up to the beam, then help him get a grip there. After untangling the man’s ankle, around which he’d somehow managed to get the rope wrapped, he demanded, “How the fuckin’ hell did you manage that piece of stupidity?”
“I relied on my partner to belay me properly, Sir. He didn’t, Sir.” The man was obviously upset, so Tony told him to rest a moment, then he’d belay him himself.
Tony rappelled down the rope and held it while the other man slid down. “You okay to go on?” Tony was going to be a bastard about some things, but not about something like this. Hanging upside down by one ankle wasn’t a skinned knee.
“Yeah ... I mean, Yes, Sir.”
“Good man. Carry on.”
He followed the man to make sure that he really was good to go, no limp, no stiffness. He seemed okay, so Tony passed him to bark and snarl at a few men who seemed to think they could do it all themselves. He caught up to the man who was supposed to help the guy who’d wound up upside down and stopped him. He spent a minute or two chewing him out, ending, “Partners have each other’s six. You didn’t even stop to see if he was okay. Twenty and twenty. Count loud so I know you’re not skipping.”
It took another half an hour to get everyone to the end of the course. Tony told them to stand at ease then paced in front of the line. “Well, that was the most pathetic mess I’ve seen in years. Most of you did decent, but a few of you dragged the whole group down. Partners help each other. They don’t run off and leave their other half hanging. In one case, literally. I’ll partner you up and you’ll do everything together. If that fails, I’ll figure something else out. Do not make me do that. You won’t like it. Now. Chow in ten.” He took off, letting the platoon straggle after him.
Remy took exception to that and screamed, “Jesus on a mop stick! Space out and keep up!” The platoon managed to space themselves properly and keep up. Tony dropped back to snarl at a couple of slackers and check on Ramses and the man who’d been hung. They were both moving easily, although Ramses was scattering small chunks of drying mud as he ran.
The platoon returned to barracks to clean up before lunch, Tony and Remy took the opportunity to make notes and put their heads together.
“We got our job cut out for us, AJ. I’m sure I’ve seen worse, but not since boot.” Remy scrubbed his face with a wash rag.
Tony was washing the dust from his arms as he replied, “Seriously. What a bunch of fuckin’ rejects. Sacks has a mouth on him that I’m gonna have to deal with. And that Red guy, using his partner as a step. What the fuck?”
Remy rolled his eyes. “Who the hell names their kid Randy Red anyway? Guy’s got to have some sort of complex.”
Tony agreed. “Seriously. His Mom must have hated him.”
Remy finished his quick wipe down, rinsed the wash rag and gave it a quick wring. “Ready.”
Tony also finished his wash and headed out the door. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”
There was a separate crew that kept the recruits and reservists on track in the galley; Tony and Remy went to the Officers galley to eat.
They joined the same men they’d eaten dinner with and settled in to indulge in the long-time military tradition of bitching.
Tony moaned, “Man, you should see the idiots I’ve got. One actually used his partner as a damn stepping stone. Another left his partner hangin’ ... by the ankle from a rope. Seriously. I have my doubts about half of them. More if what happens on the range is what I think is gonna happen.” he shook his head over a fork of mashed potatoes.
A Chief Petty Officer shook his head. “We went to the range. I swear, that Marine in charge is ... a wild man. He had to call two men out for dirty weapons ... I think they’re still cleaning them. And he’s got eyes like two hawks ... saw a target half way down range that wasn’t quite right ... called the range manager on it. He’s damn good.”
Tony shrugged, “And what’s the name of this paragon?”
“Um ... Gibbs. Mean bastard, you have no idea.”
Tony, who’d just taken a sip of coffee, nearly choked. “Gibbs? Seriously? Oh, man. Great.”
Remy just grinned. “We need look him up soon.”
Tony shrugged, “Why bother? He’ll be our range officer; we can hook up with him then.”
They finished their meal and headed for the Enlisted galley to collect their men. They weren’t going to risk more puking, as dehydration could become a problem. Instead, they were going to clean the barracks and remake beds, all afternoon. They were also going to go over weapons maintenance, alternating between the two.
This meant that they were going to spend the afternoon alternately explaining things and yelling. Push-ups and sit-ups were the order of the day.
Tony eyed Remy who eyed him right back. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s put wheels under this bitch.”
They trotted back to the enlisted galley and collected their men. The run back to barracks didn’t take that long, but it left half the men short of breath and green. Tony shook his head. “You’re the sorriest bunch of rejects I’ve seen since boot. Start cleaning.”
He and Remy stood around watching as each man started to clean the area near his rack. Tony shot a disgusted look at Remy then yelled, “Stop! What the bloody blue blazes do you think you’re doing? Or are you thinking at all?” He waited a moment then ordered, “Line up.” The whole platoon scurried to line up. “Space out!” they each put their right hand on the shoulder of the man to their right then shuffled around until they were spaced properly. “Good job on that.” Tony managed that awful sarcasm that made even Gibbs wince. “Sound off, one, two.” He pointed at a man on one end of the line. He promptly yelled, “One, Sir!” They numbered down the line. And Tony pointed to Remy. “Two’s with him! One’s mop and bucket. Move it!” There was more rushing around as the two’s hurried to Remy for further orders while the one’s ran for mops and buckets.
It didn’t take long before each group was pissing and moaning. The Two group were set to cleaning their gear, including the dummy weapons they’d gotten in their issue. These were non-working models of an issue pistol and rifle, which they would disassemble, clean, and reassemble until Remy was satisfied with their time. They got non-firing models because working weapons weren’t allowed in their hands until Tony approved it. The One’s formed a mop brigade, spaced across the length of the barracks with mops and buckets of water. They’d mop the floor from end to end, including showers and any other flat, floor-appearing surface Tony pointed to, until Tony was satisfied that it was clean.
This was accomplished with much yelling and swearing from both Remy and Tony. No one could do anything exactly right, according to them, which necessitated doing it over again until it met their approval. And they were very particular; one hair, speck of dust, or lint and the whole thing had to be done again.
The whole afternoon went much as Remy and Tony had expected. The floors got mopped twice by the Two’s and three times by the One’s; this was because Sacks was in group one and had kicked over his bucket after being pushed by the man to his left because he’d slopped dirty water up his shins. This resulted in Sacks and the other man doing push-ups and sit-ups alternately until the other eight men in the group finished re-mopping the whole floor.
Remy examined the last weapon of group One and announced, “Finally! I do not believe I’ve seen a sorrier group of Reserve fuck-ups since my last promotion. If this is the best you can do... I’m worried. Seriously worried. And I don’t like being worried. So.... fix it!”
Tony added a few pithy remarks of his own, advising the platoon to correct themselves or suffer for it. This led to some shuffling and grumbling, but Tony snarled, “If anyone has anything worth my time to hear, sing out.” He gave them a moment then snorted, “Thought not.” He eyed his watch and realized that it was later than he’d thought. “Chow in ten, anyone late loses out.” Then they left
Sacks eyed the window, making sure that DiNozzo and that Cajun mess were both gone. They passed the window and disappeared down the street. He sighed, “Man, I hate that fucker. He’s... arrogant, ignorant, and... and... Gah!” he snarled wordlessly.
His barrack mates mostly ignored him, but Ramses told him, “Scuttlebutt says he’s a SEAL. Don’t know what your problem with him is, but you better cool it. Take a pill or whatever. We’ve got to deal with him for 13 more days. If you screw this up for me... I won’t be pleased. Now... here’s the way... shut your pie hole and keep your head down. You yap an’ he’s gonna zero in on you... and everyone around you. That means your squad. That includes me. Got me?”
“I’m sure. And, if that was a threat, I’ll inform you right now that I am FBI and that’s threatening a federal officer.” Sacks gave Ramses a satisfied look.
Ramses eyed him right back. “And I don’t give a fuck. I gave my last fuck years ago. If you get me into trouble by antagonizing a fuckin’ LtCmdr... well, I’m gonna be very pissed.” And with that he headed out for the galley, followed by all their squad and most of the rest of the platoon.
.
Tony and Remy returned to their quarters and settled for quick, cold showers before they headed out to eat. Dinner in Officer’s galley was usually not considered formal so they put on Service Khaki uniforms and left for dinner
They didn’t stay in the galley long, just long enough to get their dinner, stuff it down and leave again. Both of them were uncomfortable in the crowded and noisy galley, so they got out as soon as they could. By doing that, they missed Gibbs as he made his way into the Non-Com’s galley across the hall.
Gibbs also missed seeing Tony and Remy when a group of giggling Petty Officers cut him off as they scampered into the galley. He frowned at them, thinking, “God, they get younger and sillier every day.” He entered the galley on their heels and added himself to the end of the line. He needed to show his vouchers, so he had them in hand. He went through the line, selecting as balanced a meal as he could manage, then showed his voucher to the clerk at the end of the line. He’d much rather have eaten in the Officer’s Galley, as he could order off a limited menu, but this would do.
He forked up a bite of the smothered steak and wondered as he chewed why they called it smothered. It was just a hamburger patty covered in brown onion gravy; he also had a ball of stiff mashed potatoes and some rather sad looking broccoli. The cake, however, was moist, tender, and not too sweet. The icing was also very good. The coffee was― acceptable, barely.
He finished his second cup, refused a third, then got up. He wondered exactly where Tony and Remy were assigned. He knew they were on the same base. He also knew that they were probably very busy; records had to be kept and PT decisions made, but he was hoping to link up with them at least once before they showed up on his range.
He thought for a moment then settled at the bar. This bar was one of the newer ones, remodeled within the last two or three years and was a combined NCO/CO bar. This was a newer idea; the PTB felt that it created an atmosphere in which Noncoms and Commissioned could exchange ideas and opinions without fearing repercussions or yes-sir-ing. It did seem to work.
So he ordered a bourbon and water and settled to exchange scuttlebutt with anyone who’d sit near him. It was a bit early for the gossips to be out, but he could hope. It turned out that the bartender was the old-fashioned type.
“Looks like you’re asking yourself a question?” The bartender stood in front of Gibbs, wiping the surface of the bar.
“Yeah. I know a friend of mine ... two of them in fact, are here. I don’t want to go through official channels to find them, as I just want to hook up with them for a drink or two after duty. DiNozzo and Devereaux. Any ideas?” Gibbs sipped at his drink, savoring the Wild Turkey; he waited patiently while the bartender thought.
“DiNozzo I’ve heard of ... Honey Badger. Yeah. But Devereaux? Not sure.”
Gibbs thought for a moment then said, “Might know him as LeBeau. He and DiNozzo are a team.”
“Yeah, LeBeau. The two of them are bivvied at...” He fished around and wrote an address on a napkin and handed it over.
Gibbs smiled into his drink. They were only about a city block away from him. “Thanks. I’ll look ‘em up tomorrow. If they ask for me, I’m a couple of blocks away. That WWII Quonset. It’s not bad, better than some.” He finished his drink, tossed some money on the bar and left, nodding to the bartender as he walked by.
He walked right by Tony and Remy’s place on his way home. He glanced at the place, but didn’t go up to the door; the windows were dark, so they were either tormenting their platoon or asleep.
.
Chapter 2
Ron Sacks was not a happy FBI agent; he’d arrived at the departure station to find that they were not going by plane, as planned, but by bus. And it was a school-type bus rather than a tour bus. This was not going to be fun.
He carried his duffel onboard and settled into a seat. His plan had been to sleep as much as he could on the trip to Great Lakes, but that was blown out of the water. There was no way he was going to get any sleep on this trip. He checked his tablet and realized that the trip was going to take upwards of twenty hours, depending on route and traffic. He rubbed his face and sighed. “Fuck.”
His seat mate introduced himself as CPO Ramses Great. “Yeah, my Momma hated me. So ... how long is this nightmare going to last?”
“Twenty hours plus. And you will not sleep on me.”
“Okay, man, don’t get your shorts in a bunch. I’m not that happy about this shit either. Got things to do and places to be that aren’t this.” And with that, Ramses put his feet in the aisle and went to sleep.
Sacks managed to wedge himself into the angle between the seat and window with one foot braced on the leg of the bench seat in front of him and doze off. When the bus started out twenty minutes later they were all awakened by a MCPO shouting at them to answer roll.
Sacks just yelled, “Yo!” when his name was called and went back to sleep.
Five hours later he pushed Ramses off his shoulder. “Off, man, I am not a bed.”
“Sorry. Had a last shift before I had to report. I’m beat.” Ramses rubbed his face.
“What do you do?” Sacks decided that they’d better stay awake for a bit.
“Bouncer, bodyguard, chauffeur. Anything that requires big, dumb, and strong.” He shrugged. “Good money, and I’m savin’ up to set up my own limo service.”
Sacks nodded. “So ... reserves?”
“Enlisted to get away from my family. The whole bunch of ‘em aren’t worth spit.” Ramses settled back for a chat. “What do you do?”
“FBI. I figured that being in Reserves would impress my superiors there. Not so much.”
They spent the next couple of hours bitching and moaning about having to interrupt their lives to report and gassing over their fellow workers and bosses. Finally, someone told them to shut up or get smacked around. The ranking officer onboard told them all to shut up.
Sacks subsided but Ramses grumbled, “I could’a been at a swanky beach place with a fruity drink and a hot woman; instead I’m here without a drink or a woman. As to hot, you’re all sweaty, but that don’t count.”
Sacks idly wondered why they always arrived at dusk but fell asleep before he could figure it out.
.
Tony and Remy made sure that all the new issue was organized and ready. They were also authorizing haircuts for every single man. Remy mumbled, “If the TO ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
Tony smirked at him and said, “Thus saith Abby.”
Remy shuddered dramatically. “Remind me never to truly piss that woman off. She’s evil.” He checked one last line on his clipboard. “Ok; towels, wash cloths, sheets, blanket, pillow, pillow case, one new issue NWU, socks, underwear, t-shirts, boots. They’re all gonna whine like kicked bitches when they find out they have to leave everything but their hygiene products behind.”
Tony nodded. “And we’re gonna go through that, and all they get to keep is soap or body wash, shampoo, toothbrush and paste, shaving gear, and medical necessities.”
Remy nodded. “They’re not gonna have time to mess with conditioner, gel, an’ all that.”
One final check of everything led to Tony remarking, “Hope they like having everything a size too large. I double checked their sizes against their records. If they didn’t keep them updated ... tough.”
Remy shrugged. “Just hope they didn’t put on too much weight.” He thought for a moment. “If they did, they’ll just have to put in a requisition for the proper size.”
“Might make them all get remeasured when they get their haircut.”
Remy snickered, “Man, you just as evil as Abby.”
“Well, you knew that all along. Jerk.” Tony poked Remy in the ribs, making him laugh and shoulder him.
“Bitch.”
“You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m pretty.”
They laughed together then headed out to make sure that their room suited; their quick check hadn’t done more than make sure that they had the proper uniform.
.
Some TO’s lived in the same barracks as their men, others did not. Tony and Remy did not.
The feeling, in this case, was that their much higher rank might cause the men to be unable to relax when their ‘day’ was done. But the highest rank in the troupe was Petty Officer First Class, so it was a good thing that Remy was a Master Chief Petty Officer.
They made up their beds themselves; it wouldn’t do to have someone else do it then insist that their men make theirs themselves. They also cleaned the room. They had a small sitting area, so they settled down to just exist for a bit before they went out to greet their group.
They just relaxed until Tony glanced at his watch and said, “Twenty. We better go.” So they headed out at a fast trot.
.
Ron Sacks was half asleep when Ramses poked him. “Nearly there. Better wake up.”
Ron grumbled a bit then said, “Tired. I’ll wake up when it’s time.”
Ramses shrugged. “Your ass. I’m up, got my duffel where I can get to it. You’d be better off to do the same. They’re gonna come out guns blazin’, or I miss my guess.”
“So? What can they actually do?” Sacks wasn’t going to do any more than he had to do. It was up to the TO’s to get him in shape; it wasn’t his job to do more than the minimum.
Ramses just shook his head. He wasn’t happy about being here but he was going to make the best of a bad deal and work with what he had; bucking the system didn’t seem a good way to deal.
.
The bus emptied out to yelling TO’s and the snarling of the bus driver who wanted them off ... now, and he didn’t care if you were trying to wake up or what. “Off! Off! Grab your shit and get!”
Tony bellowed, “Oh! My! God! How the hell did I wind up with such a bunch of girls?” He grimaced as several of the men actually fell down the stairs. “Well, don’t just fuckin’ mill around like cattle ... line the fuck up!” He watched as most of the men managed to get their duffels and line up. The rest didn’t seem to have a clue.
Tony rubbed his face then yelled, “Will you lugnuts get it together? Sometime this century would be nice!” He zeroed in on one man, “Sacks! Damn it, how the hell can you be such a fuck-up? Where’s your duffel?”
Sacks blinked, groaned, and smarted off, “If you want it so bad, you find it.”
Tony snarled back, “You want to start out with attitude? Fine. I’ll adjust it for you. Find your fuckin’ duffel and get in line.”
Sacks started to say something else, but Ramses threw his duffel at his head, yelled, “Here! Dumbass. Shut the fuck up before we all wind up doing push-ups first thing. FBI my ass; Fools, Bitches, an’ Idiots is more like it.” He dropped his own duffel at his feet and managed a creditable At Ease stance.
Ron kicked his duffel next to Ramses’ and joined him in line.
Tony eyed them both, nodded to Ramses and said, “PO Great,” then went back to yelling at individual idiots.
Remy worked up and down the line, yelling the milling mass into something resembling order.
Tony eyed the mess and growled. He introduced himself. “My name is LtCmdr Anthony Jethro DiNozzo. You will call me LtCmdr, Sir, or some combination of that accompanied by my Patronymic. You will not call me Tony, or DiNozzo. Are we clear?”
A rather ragged, ‘Yes, sir.’ greeted this. He took exception to that at the top of his lungs. “I cannot hear you! If you’re that short of breath, we’ll work on it. Try again!”
This time everyone managed to yell, “Sir! Yes, Sir!”
Tony went on to introduce his partner. “This is Master Chief Petty Officer Remiel Andre Devereaux. You will address him as Master Chief, Master Chief Petty Officer, Sir, or some combination of the aforesaid along with his Patronymic of Devereaux. Are we clear?”
“Sir! Yes, Sir!” Everyone braced for more yelling.
“All right! You are now my command, God help me, for the next two weeks. First off, all duffels will be inspected, and you will keep personal hygiene products only. While that is being done, you’ll get a haircut. So, move out! Now!” The men started to walk off, moaning and bitching on the way. This got them another earful. “Christ on a damn cracker! You people think someone else is gonna hump your shit? Pick up your damn duffel and run, you useless bunch of jackwads! You are wasting my time! Go!” He watched as the group scurried past him.
Remy offered as he ran by, “Not that bad. Could be worse ... maybe?”
Tony snarled. “Slacks. I got fuckin’ Slacks. I hate that jerk.”
“Slacks? No Slacks. Got a Sacks, R.” Remy was confused.
“I’ve called the jerk Slacks for years. Sacks, R.” Tony eyed the running group. “You! German! Move it!” He caught up with the group, cursing himself for his inattention. “If I see more than two feet between one man and the next one ... You’re gonna regret it. Bunch up!”
The men managed to space themselves out properly and arrived at the barber in decent time. They were told to drop all their duffels on a row of tables near the door and line up. There was a lot of bitching and complaining, most of it mumbled, but no one paid any attention.
Tony got the men lined up and started to go check duffels, until he saw a man leaning on the wall. “Oh! My! God! You are not leaning on my wall! I know you aren’t! Stand up! That’s my wall and no one leans on it. No one! You got me? Stand the fuck up straight!” The leaning Petty Officer, who should have known better, jerked himself upright. “Attention! And you will stand there until told otherwise! Am I clear?” Since the PO was at attention, Tony didn’t actually expect him to reply. However, he was now going to be standing at attention until the next to last man got his haircut.
Tony noted, and pointed out to Remy, that several of the men had taken the offensive and gotten a Boot Buzz; they got another haircut anyway, but Tony and Remy marked them for a look-see.
Ramses wasn’t that happy about his new ‘do; he’d been growing dreads for a year and wasn’t that happy to have to start again. But, he knew he’d messed up by not reporting, so he kept his mouth shut. Sacks, on the other hand, put everyone’s backs up by announcing, “I’m a Senior Agent in the FBI and I don’t have to get a buzz cut.”
He started to leave but he was blocked by Tony, Remy, and one of the barbers.
Tony eyed him for a moment then snarled, “You will get in one of those chairs and get a haircut or I’ll put you on report for insubordination. What’ll it be?”
Ron Sacks wasn’t stupid, just stubborn and wrong-headed. “You’re just doing this because you’re pissed I put you up on murder charges.”
Tony shook his head. “Sacks, I don’t give a flying fuck about that. Gibbs proved you wrong, charges dismissed, not even a smudge on my record, either NCIS or SEAL. You’re just pissed because you were proven wrong. Now ... look at my shoulders ...”
Sacks actually looked.
“What do you see?”
Sacks grumbled, “A LtCmdr’s bars and star.”
Tony barked, “I didn’t hear that.”
“A LtCmdr’s bars and star, Sir!” Sacks managed to get it out loud and clear.
“And don’t you fuckin’ forget it. And you’re a damn slacker. Get in a damn chair.” Tony pointed, Sacks jumped to obey, grimacing when he realized that he had flinched when Tony got in his face.
As they returned to the table to finish the rummage through all the duffels, Tony took mercy on the leaner and yelled at him to ‘Hit a chair, now!’ No one complained about allowing him to jump the line.
Remy was going through a duffel, grumbling.
“What’s got your shorts in a knot?” Tony started on the nearest duffel.
Remy pulled out a massive dopp kit and dumped it. “This. Shampoo, okay. Conditioner, no. Razor, okay. Shaving gel, okay. Stinkin’ Axe shit ... yuck. Hair gel, hair spray, mousse, and wax. Can I just say ... what the everlovin’ fuck? And no deodorant anywhere.” He removed the offending items and dropped them into the trash. “And year after year we tell ‘em not to bring this shit and year after year they do. He also doesn’t have a toothbrush, paste, or mouthwash. What a pig.” He held up a wild Hawaiian shirt. “And this shit. Seriously?” He got a cardboard box, wrote the name on it, and dumped all the clothing that wasn’t GI reg into it. It joined a pile of similar boxes against the wall.
It took them nearly as long to get through the duffels as it did to get the haircuts done.
When everyone was lined up to collect their duffels Tony addressed the group. “Okay, you’ll notice that your shit has been sorted. You do not have time for gel, mousse, or any of that shit. It’s in the trash. You were told not to bring it. You have been issued GI; use it. Your other clothing, except for what is reg, is in a box. You’ll get it back when you leave. Your issue is in front of your duffel ... grab it and head out.” He watched as everyone scurried forward to grab their gear and run for the barracks. He shook his head. “If you snicker, I swear I’ll swat you.”
Remy managed to keep a straight face. “Yeah, we better follow that bunch a’ idjets before they get lost and hurt themselves.”
It took another hour to get the reservists bedded down as Tony insisted that all beds be properly made before anyone got to sleep. This meant that, when your bed was properly made, you stood At Ease until all beds were “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” Needless to say, making your crew mates stand around while you fucked up making a bed didn’t earn you any friendship points.
Sacks made his bed, then stood at the foot. MCPO Devereaux came around, took one look, and yelled, “Christ on a crutch! What the hell is that? You do not just twist the corners into a knot and stuff it under the mattress.” He ripped the covers off and ordered, “Miter the damn corners. And I will bounce a quarter off that bed, or you’ll do it again.”
Sacks eyed him, then mouthed off, “Well, it was good enough for my Momma.”
“I am not, thank God, your Momma. And you will make the bed Navy-approved ... after giving me ten sit-ups and ten push-ups. And watch your damn mouth. I’m not your friend, and I’m not putting up with that shit,” he glared around, “from anyone. Get to it.”
It was near midnight before they got to bed.
.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not a happy man. He hated leaving Tim alone to deal with three new people. Dean and Cosmo were new to the team, and Dorneget was nearly a complete unknown. He knew that Leon was keeping an eye on them, but he was still nervous. He also knew that it was past time for Tim to be given more responsibilities. He knew; he just didn’t like it. But he had to report on Monday, so he sucked it up and dealt.
He didn’t bother to have a talk with either Dean or Cosmo, as they had all talked all this stuff over in the past. Instead he did laundry and cleaned guns. Dean and Cosmo read case files and put up with his snapping and snarling. Neither one of them blamed him a bit; no one wanted to put up with a bunch of new recruits or retreads.
He finally packed his duffel, got in his car, and drove to Quantico. He was displeased in the extreme to find out that he’d been loaned to the Navy and was going to Great Lakes to teach sharpshooting to a bunch of reservists. He snarled sourly, ordered some poor derp to take his car back to his house, and stomped off to the air strip.
He approached the Loadmaster to tell him that he was carrying “private arms.” The Petty Officer turned out to be a rather sour-faced woman by the name of Randy. She gave him a side-oogle, then said, “Keep it close, Master Gunny,” then returned to her clipboard and earpiece. Gibbs just boarded, found a space, and settled in.
Takeoff was no problem, but the screaming, crying kids and harassed-looking women who’d crowded around him were. The layover somewhere or other to pick up he didn’t care what didn’t help. He was working on a headache until he was called by name. “Gibbs ... Master Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs?”
“Yo!” Gibbs stood and gathered his gear; he was not about to leave anything to the busy fingers of a bunch of bored kids. “What’s up?”
The airman grinned. “Figured you needed rescue. This way.” He led the way behind a pallet of boxes. “Sit.”
Gibbs settled in the hollow created by several piles of pallets. “Nice. Thanks.”
The airman nodded. “Coffee? Thermos, but I got it at Starbucks before we took off.”
Gibbs produced his own thermos from his duffel. “No, but thanks for the thought.” They settled in companionable semi-silence; most of the noise was blocked by the pallets, the rest was muted by the sound of the engines.
It wasn’t long before they were joined by a couple more airmen with their own coffee. “So. Who knows a good one?”
Gibbs settled back to indulge in the old military pastime of Toppers. “Okay. Who’s going to start?” They all looked at each other, reluctant to start but wanting to get on with things. Finally one of the men produced a pack of greasy cards and they cut for starter.
The airman that won started out, “No shit, man. There we were ...” They spent the next two hours swapping stories.
Gibbs looked at his watch then asked, “How long is this flight actually going to take?”
The Master Sergeant shrugged. “You know how it goes, should take about three ... four hours. We get diverted again? Who the fuck knows.”
The navigator dropped by just then to tell them, “We’ve been diverted to Columbus, Ohio, with a layover of an hour.”
Gibbs sighed; there went his hopes of getting in in any kind of daylight. “Well, fuck.”
The layover took exactly an hour, which put them two hours behind time. Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest and propped himself up by bracing his feet against the pallet opposite him and went to sleep.
He woke up when someone nudged his feet and said, “Master Guns, we’re readying for landing. Brace yourself.”
He grunted and resettled in a more upright position and prepared for landing. The landing wasn’t rougher than normal, but several women screamed and most of the younger kids started crying, again. Gibbs picked up his rifle case and duffel and wedged himself into an odd corner. He intended to stay there until most of the dependent passengers were offloaded. He was not about to get stuck trying to make his way through a milling throng of confused adults and screaming, crying kids.
He succeeded and finally deplaned along with the crew. He glanced around, hoping for a ride, and saw a sailor standing by a jeep. “You lookin’ for me?”
“Gibbs?”
Gibbs nodded, “That’s me.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The man looked half scared, half excited.
“I got a bivvy? Or do I get some squat?” He was not looking forward to winding up in some shack that Housing considered “acceptable quarters.” The last time, he’d wound up in a converted workshop that had no hot water and was nearly a mile from anything.
“We managed a good spot for you. Here’s your orders ... and I’m to see you to your quarters, sir.” The sailor climbed into the driver’s seat, and Gibbs put his luggage behind the back seat, then took the passenger side; he wasn’t about to sit in back like some CO. “Well, we’re off.”
Gibbs ignored the boy’s driving with aplomb; he was used to Ziva’s driving, this was little-old-lady-driving-to-church stuff in comparison. He opened the file and read. It didn’t take him long to groan, “Shit! I get to nurse-maid a bunch of slackers? Great.” The driver made a sympathetic noise. When Gibbs got to who he was going to partner with, he smiled; the list of fellow Training Officers was familiar.
The driver offered, “I heard you have to work with some Squid. Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ll be running the firing range for a couple of SEALs who’ve got to have pissed off someone high up or something, ‘cause they’ve got a bunch of Reservists that slacked off at least two years. And a couple of groups of up-and-comers that need to qualify for Spec. Ops. and shit.”
Gibbs blinked for a moment, clicked that the man was Navy, not Air Force, then asked, “And you know this ... how?”
The man cheerfully replied, “Scuttlebutt’s a bitch, ain’t it? You know how it goes.”
Gibbs snorted and agreed, “I do.”
He was pleasantly surprised when they pulled up in front of a small Quonset hut. Since he was only going to be here for two weeks, he wasn’t about to rent anything so he had to settle for WWII vintage temporary housing. It wasn’t as bad as some places he’d stayed and it was close to the firing range, not that that bothered him that much. He just wasn’t that fond of humping a rifle and a case of ammo across the base.
He got out of the jeep, thanked the driver, returned his salute then got his things and went inside. He was happy to see that the place was clean and in good order; it was also one bedroom, which meant he was a singleton. The kitchen was 1950’s military, but functional and well stocked with food. Gibbs was going to eat most of his meals in the galley, but he was glad to see enough of this and that that he could scramble up a quick meal if he needed to. And he’d brought his own grind, of course, so coffee wasn’t going to be a problem. The only problem was the almost total lack of dishes and flatware.
After checking the bedroom to make sure the bed was made, Gibbs wandered back into the kitchen to make coffee. As he waited for it to brew he unpacked his duffel and put his things away. It was late evening, but he knew he had to be up early to go over lesson plans with the other trainers and staff. He grumbled softly, turned on the TV, and sat on the couch, drinking coffee and watching the news and weather, casually flipping through his orders as he did so. He was relieved to find that he only had two four hour classes a day; one started at the unbelievable hour of 0800, the other started at 1400. He grumbled a bit but resolved to run the grinder in the morning, eat good meals, and spend the evening cleaning and repairing small arms.
.
Tony woke at 0430 on the dot, ten seconds before Remy did. He threw his covers back, got dressed, then made the bed. He joined Remy in the kitchenette for coffee, then they headed out to wake their group. They did this by banging the door to the barracks open and yelling, “Good morning, ladies! Up! Up! Rise and shine! If you can’t shine, get the fuck up anyway!”
The moaning and bitching didn’t deter them at all. Remy continued to yell while Tony gave the sleepyheads his personal attention. This included screaming as near their ears as he felt safe and, if all else failed, tipping their racks over with them still in them. He did this to two men: Sacks and some red-headed guy who rejoiced in the name of Randy Red.
“You have won the Clean Barracks Award. While we all go eat, you’ll police the barracks before you do the same. Get busy!” Remy eyed the newly made bunks, yanked the covers off three, and announced, “You three join the two sleeping beauties. The rest of us are leaving.”
And with that the whole group, minus the five who were already in hot water, left for breakfast. This was the last morning they’d eat before PT. Not that they got to take it easy this morning. Tony and Remy moved up and down the line barking and snarling.
They lined up, got their food, and sat down where Remy pointed. This was interesting to most of the men, as Remy informed them, “Fine. Look to the left of you.” He waited a moment, then yelled, “Oh! My! God! Are all of you slow? Look! Left!” Everyone looked. “Now look right.” They obeyed. “Remember who is on your left and right as they are members of your squad. Everyone on your side of the table is a member of your squad. You will sleep with them, eat with them, sweat with them, run with them. And they will do the same with you. You’ll either elevate each other to the heights, or drag each other to the depths. Now eat!”
So they all ate. Remy and Tony wolfed down their food, sitting at the head and foot of the table, the last time they would sit with the men. They were joined by Sacks and his companions just in time for them to sit where they were told and wolf down cream of wheat and toast, the only things left.
Sacks kept his mouth shut, as he was hungry and knew that, if he mouthed off, he’d be doing PT instead of eating. He also knew that no one could actually force him to do anything; but refusal could lead to a court martial, and he didn’t want any part of that particular exercise.
When Tony was done, he stood up and started yelling again. “I swear ... I’ve never seen such a bunch of slow-ass motherfuckers in my life. If you’re not done in ten seconds ... you’ll be on report. Move it! Move it! Move it!” Remy took one side of the table and Tony the other and they ‘motivated’ their men to eat faster and get going.
As they scurried out the door, Tony whispered to Remy, “What do you wanna bet that at least half of ‘em puke?”
“No bet. I intend that my whole squad re-learns the concept of PT, then eat.” Remy gave Tony an evil grin.
Tony returned it, muttering, “Bet all mine puke.”
They chivvied the whole platoon to the Great Lakes version of the Grinder, yelling at most of them at one time or the other to pick up the pace. Tony told two of them, “If you don’t keep up, you’re out. If you’re out, that means out of the Reserves. You’re a Bug Company reject.”
He overheard someone mutter, “Man, that DiNozzo is really a belt-fed son-of-a-bitch.”
He walked up behind him and yelled, “I am, and don’t you forget it! Now run!”
They ran, and ran, and ran. Several of Remy’s men dropped out, panting too hard to continue. Remy rounded on them, yelled, “Hydrate! Then get up and run!” He waited until they had gotten a drink, had a medic go over them, then turned into a screaming fiend, barking at their heels until they caught up with the group.
Ron Sacks noticed that both Remy and Tony weren’t sweating, despite the fact that they’d run twice as far as the platoon, screaming all the while. He was disgusted; in general and in particular. In general, he’d thought he was in good shape, he wasn’t; he’d thought he was prepared for this, he wasn’t. In particular, he realized that he was at the mercy of a man he’d put up for murder. He sighed; now all he had to do was get over things, man up and deal. He panted his way through another fifty yards before he had to drop out and puke. Twice.
Tony jumped on that. “What the hell, Sacks? You’re FB fuckin’ I. You’re supposed to be in shape. Jimmy’s in better shape than that and he’s an ME.” He got right in Sacks’ face. “I’m gonna make fuckin’ sure that you’re in shape. The kind a’ shape you’re supposed to be in. And when’s the last fuckin’ time you qualified with your damn sidearm?”
Sacks winced. He’d also managed to skip qualifying for six months over his due date. “I’m qualified.”
“Bet.” Tony’s tone of voice was doubtful; his expression said he didn’t believe Sacks for a second.
Sacks turned sullen, “Well, I am.”
Remy, who’d been keeping the non-puking members going, trotted back. “Problem?”
“PO Sacks claims to have qualified on schedule. We’ll be checking that out.” Tony jerked his head at Sacks. “Move out.”
Sacks hurried to rejoin the platoon. He knew he was busted, but hoped to bluff it out.
By halfway through the grinder, every single man in the platoon had dropped out to puke. Remy and Tony made sure that they stayed hydrated, yelling at them to drink at regular intervals and making sure that they did exactly that. It helped that there were barrels with bottles of water and sports drink sprinkled all over the place. Medics were also placed at strategic points along the way.
By the time they reached the end of the Grinder and the team obstacles, the group was about done. They’d make it through the last parts if they cooperated; if they didn’t, it was a fail and they’d be back after an hour’s rest to try the whole thing over.
Remy shook his head sadly; their two groups were already at each other’s throats, each group trying to get a leg over the other. One-upsmanship at its worse. Tony waded in to pull Ramses out of the muck with one hand, while he used the other to push Randy off his back. “Damn it! Great is not a stepstool. You could have drowned him. I’m gonna adjust your attitude. Gimme twenty push-ups and twenty sit-ups. Get going. And I better hear you count every one.”
He set Ramses to watch Red, telling him, “Since you’re the one he decided made a good stool, you can make sure he counts. Then catch up.”
Ramses just nodded, crossed his muddy arms over his wet chest and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” His expression let Tony know that he had his doubts about that.
“If that jackwad won’t cooperate on the team obstacles, go around ‘em.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Tony headed off to rescue another couple who’d gotten themselves into grief on a rope climb.
This time he had to climb to the top, pull the man up to the beam, then help him get a grip there. After untangling the man’s ankle, around which he’d somehow managed to get the rope wrapped, he demanded, “How the fuckin’ hell did you manage that piece of stupidity?”
“I relied on my partner to belay me properly, Sir. He didn’t, Sir.” The man was obviously upset, so Tony told him to rest a moment, then he’d belay him himself.
Tony rappelled down the rope and held it while the other man slid down. “You okay to go on?” Tony was going to be a bastard about some things, but not about something like this. Hanging upside down by one ankle wasn’t a skinned knee.
“Yeah ... I mean, Yes, Sir.”
“Good man. Carry on.”
He followed the man to make sure that he really was good to go, no limp, no stiffness. He seemed okay, so Tony passed him to bark and snarl at a few men who seemed to think they could do it all themselves. He caught up to the man who was supposed to help the guy who’d wound up upside down and stopped him. He spent a minute or two chewing him out, ending, “Partners have each other’s six. You didn’t even stop to see if he was okay. Twenty and twenty. Count loud so I know you’re not skipping.”
It took another half an hour to get everyone to the end of the course. Tony told them to stand at ease then paced in front of the line. “Well, that was the most pathetic mess I’ve seen in years. Most of you did decent, but a few of you dragged the whole group down. Partners help each other. They don’t run off and leave their other half hanging. In one case, literally. I’ll partner you up and you’ll do everything together. If that fails, I’ll figure something else out. Do not make me do that. You won’t like it. Now. Chow in ten.” He took off, letting the platoon straggle after him.
Remy took exception to that and screamed, “Jesus on a mop stick! Space out and keep up!” The platoon managed to space themselves properly and keep up. Tony dropped back to snarl at a couple of slackers and check on Ramses and the man who’d been hung. They were both moving easily, although Ramses was scattering small chunks of drying mud as he ran.
The platoon returned to barracks to clean up before lunch, Tony and Remy took the opportunity to make notes and put their heads together.
“We got our job cut out for us, AJ. I’m sure I’ve seen worse, but not since boot.” Remy scrubbed his face with a wash rag.
Tony was washing the dust from his arms as he replied, “Seriously. What a bunch of fuckin’ rejects. Sacks has a mouth on him that I’m gonna have to deal with. And that Red guy, using his partner as a step. What the fuck?”
Remy rolled his eyes. “Who the hell names their kid Randy Red anyway? Guy’s got to have some sort of complex.”
Tony agreed. “Seriously. His Mom must have hated him.”
Remy finished his quick wipe down, rinsed the wash rag and gave it a quick wring. “Ready.”
Tony also finished his wash and headed out the door. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”
There was a separate crew that kept the recruits and reservists on track in the galley; Tony and Remy went to the Officers galley to eat.
They joined the same men they’d eaten dinner with and settled in to indulge in the long-time military tradition of bitching.
Tony moaned, “Man, you should see the idiots I’ve got. One actually used his partner as a damn stepping stone. Another left his partner hangin’ ... by the ankle from a rope. Seriously. I have my doubts about half of them. More if what happens on the range is what I think is gonna happen.” he shook his head over a fork of mashed potatoes.
A Chief Petty Officer shook his head. “We went to the range. I swear, that Marine in charge is ... a wild man. He had to call two men out for dirty weapons ... I think they’re still cleaning them. And he’s got eyes like two hawks ... saw a target half way down range that wasn’t quite right ... called the range manager on it. He’s damn good.”
Tony shrugged, “And what’s the name of this paragon?”
“Um ... Gibbs. Mean bastard, you have no idea.”
Tony, who’d just taken a sip of coffee, nearly choked. “Gibbs? Seriously? Oh, man. Great.”
Remy just grinned. “We need look him up soon.”
Tony shrugged, “Why bother? He’ll be our range officer; we can hook up with him then.”
They finished their meal and headed for the Enlisted galley to collect their men. They weren’t going to risk more puking, as dehydration could become a problem. Instead, they were going to clean the barracks and remake beds, all afternoon. They were also going to go over weapons maintenance, alternating between the two.
This meant that they were going to spend the afternoon alternately explaining things and yelling. Push-ups and sit-ups were the order of the day.
Tony eyed Remy who eyed him right back. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s put wheels under this bitch.”
They trotted back to the enlisted galley and collected their men. The run back to barracks didn’t take that long, but it left half the men short of breath and green. Tony shook his head. “You’re the sorriest bunch of rejects I’ve seen since boot. Start cleaning.”
He and Remy stood around watching as each man started to clean the area near his rack. Tony shot a disgusted look at Remy then yelled, “Stop! What the bloody blue blazes do you think you’re doing? Or are you thinking at all?” He waited a moment then ordered, “Line up.” The whole platoon scurried to line up. “Space out!” they each put their right hand on the shoulder of the man to their right then shuffled around until they were spaced properly. “Good job on that.” Tony managed that awful sarcasm that made even Gibbs wince. “Sound off, one, two.” He pointed at a man on one end of the line. He promptly yelled, “One, Sir!” They numbered down the line. And Tony pointed to Remy. “Two’s with him! One’s mop and bucket. Move it!” There was more rushing around as the two’s hurried to Remy for further orders while the one’s ran for mops and buckets.
It didn’t take long before each group was pissing and moaning. The Two group were set to cleaning their gear, including the dummy weapons they’d gotten in their issue. These were non-working models of an issue pistol and rifle, which they would disassemble, clean, and reassemble until Remy was satisfied with their time. They got non-firing models because working weapons weren’t allowed in their hands until Tony approved it. The One’s formed a mop brigade, spaced across the length of the barracks with mops and buckets of water. They’d mop the floor from end to end, including showers and any other flat, floor-appearing surface Tony pointed to, until Tony was satisfied that it was clean.
This was accomplished with much yelling and swearing from both Remy and Tony. No one could do anything exactly right, according to them, which necessitated doing it over again until it met their approval. And they were very particular; one hair, speck of dust, or lint and the whole thing had to be done again.
The whole afternoon went much as Remy and Tony had expected. The floors got mopped twice by the Two’s and three times by the One’s; this was because Sacks was in group one and had kicked over his bucket after being pushed by the man to his left because he’d slopped dirty water up his shins. This resulted in Sacks and the other man doing push-ups and sit-ups alternately until the other eight men in the group finished re-mopping the whole floor.
Remy examined the last weapon of group One and announced, “Finally! I do not believe I’ve seen a sorrier group of Reserve fuck-ups since my last promotion. If this is the best you can do... I’m worried. Seriously worried. And I don’t like being worried. So.... fix it!”
Tony added a few pithy remarks of his own, advising the platoon to correct themselves or suffer for it. This led to some shuffling and grumbling, but Tony snarled, “If anyone has anything worth my time to hear, sing out.” He gave them a moment then snorted, “Thought not.” He eyed his watch and realized that it was later than he’d thought. “Chow in ten, anyone late loses out.” Then they left
Sacks eyed the window, making sure that DiNozzo and that Cajun mess were both gone. They passed the window and disappeared down the street. He sighed, “Man, I hate that fucker. He’s... arrogant, ignorant, and... and... Gah!” he snarled wordlessly.
His barrack mates mostly ignored him, but Ramses told him, “Scuttlebutt says he’s a SEAL. Don’t know what your problem with him is, but you better cool it. Take a pill or whatever. We’ve got to deal with him for 13 more days. If you screw this up for me... I won’t be pleased. Now... here’s the way... shut your pie hole and keep your head down. You yap an’ he’s gonna zero in on you... and everyone around you. That means your squad. That includes me. Got me?”
“I’m sure. And, if that was a threat, I’ll inform you right now that I am FBI and that’s threatening a federal officer.” Sacks gave Ramses a satisfied look.
Ramses eyed him right back. “And I don’t give a fuck. I gave my last fuck years ago. If you get me into trouble by antagonizing a fuckin’ LtCmdr... well, I’m gonna be very pissed.” And with that he headed out for the galley, followed by all their squad and most of the rest of the platoon.
.
Tony and Remy returned to their quarters and settled for quick, cold showers before they headed out to eat. Dinner in Officer’s galley was usually not considered formal so they put on Service Khaki uniforms and left for dinner
They didn’t stay in the galley long, just long enough to get their dinner, stuff it down and leave again. Both of them were uncomfortable in the crowded and noisy galley, so they got out as soon as they could. By doing that, they missed Gibbs as he made his way into the Non-Com’s galley across the hall.
Gibbs also missed seeing Tony and Remy when a group of giggling Petty Officers cut him off as they scampered into the galley. He frowned at them, thinking, “God, they get younger and sillier every day.” He entered the galley on their heels and added himself to the end of the line. He needed to show his vouchers, so he had them in hand. He went through the line, selecting as balanced a meal as he could manage, then showed his voucher to the clerk at the end of the line. He’d much rather have eaten in the Officer’s Galley, as he could order off a limited menu, but this would do.
He forked up a bite of the smothered steak and wondered as he chewed why they called it smothered. It was just a hamburger patty covered in brown onion gravy; he also had a ball of stiff mashed potatoes and some rather sad looking broccoli. The cake, however, was moist, tender, and not too sweet. The icing was also very good. The coffee was― acceptable, barely.
He finished his second cup, refused a third, then got up. He wondered exactly where Tony and Remy were assigned. He knew they were on the same base. He also knew that they were probably very busy; records had to be kept and PT decisions made, but he was hoping to link up with them at least once before they showed up on his range.
He thought for a moment then settled at the bar. This bar was one of the newer ones, remodeled within the last two or three years and was a combined NCO/CO bar. This was a newer idea; the PTB felt that it created an atmosphere in which Noncoms and Commissioned could exchange ideas and opinions without fearing repercussions or yes-sir-ing. It did seem to work.
So he ordered a bourbon and water and settled to exchange scuttlebutt with anyone who’d sit near him. It was a bit early for the gossips to be out, but he could hope. It turned out that the bartender was the old-fashioned type.
“Looks like you’re asking yourself a question?” The bartender stood in front of Gibbs, wiping the surface of the bar.
“Yeah. I know a friend of mine ... two of them in fact, are here. I don’t want to go through official channels to find them, as I just want to hook up with them for a drink or two after duty. DiNozzo and Devereaux. Any ideas?” Gibbs sipped at his drink, savoring the Wild Turkey; he waited patiently while the bartender thought.
“DiNozzo I’ve heard of ... Honey Badger. Yeah. But Devereaux? Not sure.”
Gibbs thought for a moment then said, “Might know him as LeBeau. He and DiNozzo are a team.”
“Yeah, LeBeau. The two of them are bivvied at...” He fished around and wrote an address on a napkin and handed it over.
Gibbs smiled into his drink. They were only about a city block away from him. “Thanks. I’ll look ‘em up tomorrow. If they ask for me, I’m a couple of blocks away. That WWII Quonset. It’s not bad, better than some.” He finished his drink, tossed some money on the bar and left, nodding to the bartender as he walked by.
He walked right by Tony and Remy’s place on his way home. He glanced at the place, but didn’t go up to the door; the windows were dark, so they were either tormenting their platoon or asleep.
.